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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556091">The Best Wine For My Beloved</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky'>MovesLikeBucky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1920s, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Crowley's Snake Tongue (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, F/F, I'd apologize to F. Scott Fitzgerald but Gatsby is public domain now baybee, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, so he can suck it this is for Zelda, spoilers in the end notes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:40:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,006</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When her heel clicks on the first marble step, the world stops moving.</p><p>Above her, turning slowly to look down from on high, is Aziraphale.  She’s in a gorgeous deep green floor-length dress, gold embroidery like ribbons trailing down the front.  It catches the chandelier light and glitters like emeralds and diamonds.  Her hair is in pin curls, pressed close to her forehead and temples.  She’s done it with soap, the way the humans do, not a miracle.  It’s topped with a brilliant sparkling gold headband nestled just above.  Her eyes are lined darkly, making the hazel all the brighter for the contrast.  As she turns to Crowley, she smiles.  </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>12 Days of Blasphemy 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Best Wine For My Beloved</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/gifts">cassieoh</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day 11 of Blasphemy only one left to go!  Today's prompt is: And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly,” (Song of Songs 7:9)</p><p>This one is for cassieoh &lt;3 My friend, I love you more than I could possibly fit in this little text box.  Modding DIWS and zines with you has been wonderful and you have been such an important part of my life this year.  I love you very much and I hope you like this!</p><p> </p><p>  <span class="u"></span><br/><strong>This is your bold and underlined warning that this fic does not have a happy ending.  I have it reliably from my beta readers that the angst is not too heavy and still leaves room for some sweetness, but if you'd like spoilers on how it ends, click through to the end notes I'll sum up the ending there.</strong><br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Crowley’s borrowed (or stolen, more accurately) car swerves around traffic, keeping pace with the other cars and their paths.  New York in the Decade of Decadence: the perfect place for a demon to lie low.  The big Seven are in full swing here, nothing for her to do but sit back and watch the commendations roll in.  Prohibition helps, makes them desperate for more alcohol than they should be able to physically drink.  Alcohol begets lowered inhibitions, begets bad decisions, and on and on they go, with barely a whisper of suggestion from her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now she is headed for the epicenter of it all, West Egg.  Everyone in New York went there on the weekends, and she had avoided it best she could.  But Hell was interested in what was going on at these large parties, and felt it was an opportunity that Crowley was missing.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls the car to a screeching halt near the fountains with the rest of them, all bright colors and shiny chrome.  They’re fun, these new things.  The old runabouts never could quite get the speed these new ones do.  Bit of a thrill if she’s honest; clever humans and their machines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowds of people, already drunk before even entering the mansion, shuffle towards the entrance.  Crowly blends in with them, ready to charm her way inside with a bit of temptation.  She’s in a slinky red number, barely long enough to graze her knees.  The beadwork on it taps pleasingly as she saunters towards the entrance.  Her eyes are lined in thick kohl, eyelashes curled high.  Her red hair is chopped short, a sleek bob that accentuates her high cheekbones.  The look is topped off with a brush of blood-red lipstick, dark as the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She charms her way past the doorman, into the main hall of the manor house.  The people are loud, the jazz music louder.  A drink is shoved into her hand without her even asking, and she downs the Sidecar in one gulp, already riding the elation and electricity of the evening.  Everywhere people are dancing, in tuxedos with tails and dresses that leave nothing to the imagination.  It’s intoxicating, the level of vice in the air.  The bankers greedily trading money over craps tables, the men drooling over the young women who won’t give them the time of day, the absolute sloth of shirking away a whole weekend to drink and party.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley could get used to this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She winds through the dancers, wanting to scope out a better view of the party from the mezzanine.  Someone rushes past her, a hint of suggestion on the air.  A hint of </span>
  <em>
    <span>heavenly</span>
  </em>
  <span> suggestion, to be exact, carried on the unmistakable scent of Earl Grey and book dust.  She spins around, looking for the source; searching out a tuft of blond curls or an outdated coat, a glance of hazel eyes, tinted with gold at the edges.  But there’s no sign of Aziraphale. Probably for the best, given their last interaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley continues to sway to the heavy beat of the jazz music, slithering through the crowd towards the staircase.  Winding past the governors and the movie stars; the tennis players and the waitstaff.  Crowley has always loved a good shindig, and this is no exception.  She flashes her brightest smile at a group of politicians as she reaches the large and ornate staircase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When her heel clicks on the first marble step, the world stops moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above her, turning slowly to look down from on high, is Aziraphale.  She’s in a gorgeous deep green floor-length dress, gold embroidery like ribbons trailing down the front.  It catches the chandelier light and glitters like emeralds and diamonds.  Her hair is in pin curls, pressed close to her forehead and temples.  She’s done it with soap, the way the humans do, not a miracle.  It’s topped with a brilliant sparkling gold headband nestled just above.  Her eyes are lined darkly, making the hazel all the brighter for the contrast.  As she turns to Crowley, she smiles.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley could write sonnets and novels about Aziraphale’s smile; about the slow slide of lips over perfect white teeth, about the crinkle of laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, about how her whole body seems to lift with the upturn of her lips.  Her smile faces the eternal world, if only for an instant, before concentrating on its victim with an irresistible prejudice in their favor.  It’s a smile that understands someone, but only as far as they want to be understood.  It assures anyone who sees it that she has precisely the impression of them that one would hope to convey at their absolute best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her knees threaten to give out in the presence of such holy beauty, as Aziraphale stands in the center of the staircase.  The crowd parts around them, as if by a miracle, as this moment as slow as molasses passes between them.  Crowley finds her feet, takes one step forward and then two, closing the distance between herself and Aziraphale with shaky hands and a shakier heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Aziraphale says as Crowley joins her, “I am certainly glad to see you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” Crowley swallows thickly, willing her serpent’s tongue to continue speaking properly even as the world around her is muffled and hazy, “I’m certainly glad to see you as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continue up the stairs in a thick and heavy silence.  Words said decades ago are still fresh in Crowley’s mind.  Holy water and fraternization; and for Aziraphale to find her here, amongst these revelers…well, Crowley isn’t an idiot.  She knows what it looks like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They find a spot along the mezzanine, take up residence against the railing as a waiter swoops by with Gin Rickeys.  Crowley grabs two from the tray, passes one to Aziraphale.  The angel extends her glass, a gesture of familiarity despite the cavernous time and hurt between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To meeting old friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right…old friends…” Crowley manages to say as she clinks their glasses together.  “Angel…about the—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to stop you right there, dear girl,” Aziraphale says sharply, “I don’t want to discuss that, I’d rather not think about it, actually.  Let’s just enjoy the party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley takes in the hunch of Aziraphale’s shoulders, the faraway look in her eyes and the way her smile now seems to not quite meet them.  It had hurt, to watch Aziraphale turn and leave back then.  Crowley had spent years wallowing in self-pity and anger over it, over the perceived slight.  It occurs to her now that Aziraphale had been hurting, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Crowley says delicately, “I know why I’m here, inspiring greed and lust wherever I go.  But what brings you across the pond?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale runs a manicured finger around the edge of her glass, trailing the mark of her red lipstick further along the rim.  Crowley wonders how it would taste, the wax mixed with the lime juice mixed with Aziraphale.  She isn’t in love, can’t be, what with being a demon and all.  But still, she allows herself these tender curiosities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a bit of a mess, really.  Heaven had me intervene, thought without libations people would turn back to Her more than they have been.” Aziraphale casts a slow glance around the room before sighing, “You can see just how well that worked out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what?  You’re here to break up the party?  Try to make it stick better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all.  I thought the idea was bunk in the first place. No, I’m here to lay a few blessings, keep Heaven happy; but really…” Aziraphale fixes her with a gaze that is powerful in its persuasion, that makes Crowley stop and take notice.  “I like large parties. They’re much more intimate, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A stuttering of syllables is all that escapes Crowley’s lips, transfixed as she is under what is and can only be described as unmistakable lust, emanating from Aziraphale in waves that leave Crowley’s hands shaking and trace shivers up her spine. “Not…not sure I follow, angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Large parties…” Aziraphale shifts her hand on the railing just a bit closer to Crowley’s, little fingers touching just slightly, “…are so </span>
  <em>
    <span>intimate</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  At small parties, there is no privacy, nowhere to hide from anyone who might be </span>
  <em>
    <span>watching</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  Aziraphale links her little finger around Crowley’s, and the demon’s breath hitches in her throat.  They don’t touch, don’t show affection; this small point of contact burns with a white hot intensity that threatens to do Crowley in right here and now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale tuts, and her hand is gone. She turns away from the railing, moving towards a hallway behind them.  She looks back over her shoulder at Crowley, pouty and shining eyes made seemingly larger and more demanding by the kohl liner.  Crowley is powerless to stop her feet moving after, following Aziraphale down the empty hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their heels click and echo off of the walls, in this hall that seems to stretch forever.  It’s eerily silent as they make their way.  Aziraphale stops at a large and ornate oak door, turning the handle and pushing it open.  Crowley follows, and finds herself inside a resplendent study; high ceiling stacked to the rafters with books, soft leather armchairs flanking a fireplace, warmth and decadence in equal measure.  There’s a large and ornate desk set in front of large floor to ceiling windows, the moonlight bright on the bay outside.  It sparkles on the water like an invitation, blue and bright and beautiful.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale, why are we—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words are swallowed off of her tongue as she’s shoved against the large bookshelves.  Aziraphale’s mouth is soft but insistent against her own; gentle in a way only Aziraphale could manage given the setting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one…no one would find us here, Crowley,” she breathes into their shared airspace, the gin on her breath strong in the air, overwhelming Crowley’s senses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley is never going to be able to drink another Gin Rickey again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why this, why now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t want…we can just… I’ll leave and it will be fine but Crowley, oh my Crowley…” Soft hands cup Crowley’s cheeks, a gentle kiss is pressed to her forehead.  “Crowley I need to know, I need to know it isn’t just me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Crowley’s turn to surge forward, to lick into Aziraphale’s mouth and commit it to memory.  She wraps her arms around Aziraphale tight, nails digging into the green velvet of her dress as she drinks her in, swallows the angel’s moans.  What could ever compare to this?  Sod all the fucking alcohol, this is enough.  Crowley has kissed Aziraphale now, and she would forever be tied to her even more than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always,” Crowley breathes against Aziraphale’s lips, “Always, Aziraphale, it isn’t just you, never just you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale kisses her again, pressing her against the bookshelf with the whole weight of her.  It feels right, the way Aziraphale’s soft curves contrast her own sharp angles.  Complimentary in their difference.  Crowley can feel the evidence of her own arousal, the clenching of her core on nothing, the want to be touched and the wetness slowly spreading on her knickers.  Aziraphale’s hands light on Crowley’s waist, slide lower along the beads to cup her ass and Crowley keens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angel!” Crowley cries out as Aziraphale lifts her easily, wrapping Crowley’s legs around her waist as she sinks her teeth into the demon’s neck.  It’s a short trip to the desk, and Aziraphale perches Crowley on the edge.  She licks and bites along Crowley’s sharp collarbones as Crowley’s nails dig harder into Aziraphale’s back, earning her a vibrating growl against her sternum.  Aziraphale pulls back finally, held in close by Crowley’s legs still wrapped around her.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s a vision, face covered in splotches of Crowley’s dark lipstick, hair mussed and lips kissed-red.  Aziraphale lifts her hand slowly, brushes a lock of Crowley’s hair out of her face where it has fallen, an infinitely gentle touch.  “Crowley…can I…I want to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want to do, Aziraphale, just touch me, please.”  It comes out needy and desperate, but maybe that’s exactly what Crowley is right now.  Aziraphale twines their fingers together, pulling Crowley towards her and off the desk.  She spins Crowley like they’re dancing, and for one moment Crowley thinks that’s what she wants; a slow turn about the room, jaunty beats drifting muffled to them through the halls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as she gets used to the idea, Aziraphale presses her against the desk from behind, bending her at the waist over the mahogany.  Crowley scrabbles for purchase, knocking papers, books, and inkwells to the floor as she does.  Aziraphale grips her hips tight as she looms over her.  She bites down at the juncture of Crowley’s neck and shoulder, snapping the strap of her dress as she does.  Crowley gasps and rolls her hips back, trying to press herself closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eager, aren’t we?” Aziraphale purrs against her skin, trailing kisses down her exposed back, one to each of her vertebrae.  It makes the snake inside of her shudder.  Aziraphale’s hand drifts lower, a soft touch sliding over glittering beads and down her thigh before toying with the hem of Crowley’s skirt.  “I shan’t keep you waiting…” Aziraphale whispers against the shell of Crowley’s ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s hand slides up Crowley’s bare thigh under her dress, palm smooth and tantalizing against her skin, gooseflesh rising in its wake.  She drags her fingers against the silk of Crowley’s knickers, just enough of a push against her core to be teasing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley whines, trying to rut down against Aziraphale’s hand, desperate for friction where she wants it most.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re already dripping, my dear.  Whiny and needy and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”  Aziraphale presses a gentle kiss into Crowley’s hair, and the demon’s heart cracks at the softness of the action.  This tender affection paired with the teasing slide of her fingers makes her want to sob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s hand drifts higher and away, and Crowley can’t help the moan of protest that escapes her.  But soon enough Aziraphale’s fingers are at the edge of her underwear, slipping beneath silk; her hand is warm and soft where it presses against Crowley’s abdomen; well manicured nails gently catching through the thatch of red hair as they travel lower towards their destination.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two fingers dip past Crowley’s labia, press over her entrance as they slide up and down, spreading her slick and making her knees shake.  Aziraphale pushes one finger in slowly, murmuring words of praise as she does.  Her breath is hot against the shell of Crowley’s ear, words of adoration carried on a puff of air from Crowley’s brain to her nerves and directly to the heart of her as Aziraphale works into her gently.  She pushes in a little and then pulls back before pushing in just a bit further, lips pressed to Crowley’s pulse point, pinning her to the desk almost painfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale rolls her thumb over Crowley’s clit, making Crowley moan and scratch at the desk.  Her nails leave deep claw marks in the mahogany, a ruin of something once beautiful.  Aziraphale pistons in and out slowly, still circling Crowley’s clit as she does.  On one particular push, she hits a spot in Crowley that has her yowling, and adjusts the angle to make sure she hits it every time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s legs are shaking, threatening to give out.  Every push of Aziraphale’s fingers makes an obscene and wet sound.  The desk is hard against her breasts, uncomfortable but thrilling in that discomfort as Aziraphale gives and takes in equal measure.  If the speed of her movements and the shake of her voice are any indication, this is affecting Aziraphale just as much as it is affecting her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crowley, you must know what you do to me.  Showing up in that dress, so little to the imagination.  Have you any idea how long I’ve watched you?  Wanted you?”  Aziraphale asks as she presses hot open-mouthed kisses to every bit of Crowley’s skin she can reach.  “Seeing you like this, writhing under my hand, taking your pleasure in my touch; only in my deepest fantasies would I have ever dreamed…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s other hand ghosts up Crowley’s spine, landing in her red hair.  A soft and gentle petting motion until it isn’t, and Aziraphale is gripping tight to red tresses and </span>
  <em>
    <span>pulling</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Crowley moans aloud at the sting, delicious and debilitating in equal measure.  Her back is drawn like a bowstring, the stretch intoxicating as Aziraphale holds that grip, bringing a second finger to join the first, and starts to move faster.  Crowley stares out the window as she moans, the moonlight and the bay the only witnesses to this union.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel is relentless, pressing into Crowley, fucking her deeply.  The cries falling from Crowley’s mouth become silent screams of pleasure, dry and cracked as she comes over Aziraphale’s fingers, clenching down hard and seeing stars burst into being behind her eyelids.  She slumps onto the desk as Aziraphale slips out of her, whines at the loss, longs to be touched by her again.  Crowley turns on shaky legs in Aziraphale’s arms, lets herself be kissed and kissed and kissed again, not wanting it to end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angel, need to, let me…anything…” Crowley breathes out, hoping Aziraphale understands.  Her tongue has gone snakey, peeks out of her mouth, forked tip of it flicking and scenting the sweat and sex on the air.  The scent of Aziraphale’s arousal is intoxicating, and she desperately wants to give Aziraphale what she was just given.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes are dark in the low light of the room, but Crowley can see the want in them all the same.  “You can do such interesting things with your tongue, dear, you’ve always said so.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes her by the hand and leads her to the chairs by the fire.  She gathers the hem of her skirt and pulls it up as high as she can, pale calves and knees revealed like an awakening.  She perches near the edge, spreads her legs wide as Crowley licks her lips and sinks to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ruin me, Crowley; make me a mess for you, so no one else will ever be enough.”  Aziraphale whispers, so quiet as to barely be heard.  Crowley leans in, throws one of Aziraphale’s legs over her shoulder, kisses the golden stretch marks that dot her thigh.  She looks up at Aziraphale, lets her tongue fall out of her mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley can, most times, keep a pretty good hold on her corporation.  Keep the more snakey parts of things under control.  This is not one of those times.  Her tongue is forked and elongated, thin and sensitive.  She leans in and flicks the fork of it over Aziraphale’s clit, tasting the musk and arousal of her as the angel gasps, heel digging into Crowley’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She dips in slow, tasting Aziraphale at the source, winding her way in deeper than any human tongue would ever be able as Aziraphale moans and whines above her.  The angel’s leg shakes where it rests on her shoulder, her hand tangles in Crowley’s hair, gripping like a lifeline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley spares a bit of thought to make her tongue thicker and Aziraphale keens, her back arching off of the chair until she falls forward, pressing them both to the rug with a muffled thunk.   But this is an angle that Crowley can work with, and she works her tongue in more, bending it at Aziraphale’s entrance so every damned inch of it slides over Aziraphale’s clit before slipping inside of her cunt.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel clenches around her tongue, pulling her in more and grinding down against Crowley’s face.  Crowley’s nails dig into Aziraphale’s thighs as she mouths at her, working her lips alongside her serpent tongue, trying to heighten the sensation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale comes with a strangled cry, grinding down hard on Crowley’s face and punching the air out of her lungs, fingers twisted in Crowley’s hair.  The pressure around her sensitive tongue is enough to send Crowley over the edge for the second time, shaking and shivering under the wave of her second orgasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sits up slowly, Crowley’s tongue slipping out of her and slowly shifting back to normal as they both breathe heavily.  Aziraphale stands on shaky legs, pulls Crowley to her feet.  Their fingers are entwined loosely as they walk out onto the balcony, needing relief from the heat in the form of the cool night air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stand in relative silence, although closer than before.  Aziraphale’s arm rests around Crowley’s waist, and Crowley’s head rests on her shoulder.  Aziraphale pulls a sleek black case out of the firmament, taps it against the railing a few times before pulling out a cigarette.  She passes one to Crowley, who lights it with her finger before taking a long drag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pleading look Crowley always recognizes passes over Aziraphale’s features, and she leans in, touching the tip of her cigarette to Aziraphale’s, lighting it for her where it hangs from the angel’s lips.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says with a smile that Crowley cannot help but notice does not meet her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They smoke in silence, something heavy and inevitable hanging over their heads.  Aziraphale sighs and the words Crowley has been dreading since her back first hit the bookshelf finally find reality in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can never do this again,” Aziraphale says, sadness in her voice.  “Heaven will be watching again soon, and you are a demon, and I cannot do these kinds of things with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t stop you tonight,” Crowley sneers, already putting her walls back up as she steps out of Aziraphale’s grasp.  “Lots of pretty things you said to me in there, angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I meant every word.  But we cannot do this again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aziraphale, you have to know that I—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do, and I feel the same,” Azirpahale stops her before she can say it.  Before the words can exist in the air between them, real and unable to be taken back.  Not now, maybe not ever.  Aziraphale places a gentle hand on Crowley’s cheek, and Crowley knows she should spurn it and turn away.  But she can’t, not from this.  Never from this.  “I will never regret what happened here tonight, but it will never happen again, it’s too dangerous.  For the both of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to at least get a say in that…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says softly as she takes the ruined dress strap, running it back over Crowley’s shoulder and fixing it with a quick miracle.  But Crolwey will always know that it was broken, always know what happened here.  Aziraphale leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Crowley’s lips one last time before turning and rushing out of the room, back to the party and her blessings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley stands, dumbstruck, before turning back to the moon and the bay.  The moon moves in phases, the reflections on the water changing with it.  It pulls the tides, shifts the entire ocean under its gravitational pull.  So too, does Aziraphale’s gravity pull Crowley.  Bending and shifting her in every way, since the beginning of the Earth itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley watches the front steps, sees Aziraphale step out, escorted by one of the staff.  A car pulls up to meet her, a sleek and black number, and a man holds the door open for her.  Their eyes meet as she looks up to the balcony, sadness painting her face.  Crowley can only stare as Aziraphale ducks into the car and it pulls away.  In a perfect world, that last kiss would stop lingering on her lips.  It would be a feeling she could push away, get rid of.  She wishes Aziraphale hadn’t kissed her at all; Crowley wishes she didn’t love her like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The taillights of the car fade into the distance, Crowley watches until she can’t see anymore.  All the bright, precious things fade so fast.  And they don’t come back.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Spoilers if you clicked through:</p><p>Aziraphale and Crowley have sex, and during such Aziraphale says a lot of things about how she feels and how much she wants Crowley.  Afterwards, they are standing together on a balcony and Aziraphale says it can never happen again.  Crowley, understandably, is confused, given everything that was said.  Aziraphale says it's what's best for the both of them, stops Crowley from saying "I love you", gives her one last kiss and then leaves.  Aziraphale turns from the driveway to look back up to Crowley where she stands on the balcony, but Crowley is resigned that it was both the first and the last time, and the fic ends there.</p><p>Of course we all know that in less than 20 years the church will be bombed, and then the thermos will be passed in Soho in 67, and finally after the end of the world they'll toast with champagne and begin their lives together.  But Crowley doesn't know that yet.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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